


Mamihlapinatapai

by WritingQuill



Series: Meanings [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Arthur Conan Doyle - Freeform, Banter, Bookshop, Case Fic, Edinburgh, Friendship/Love, Longing, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Tourism, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mamihlapinatapai (Yagan): wordless yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something but are both reluctant to start</p><p>John and Sherlock silently come to terms about their own feelings towards the other during a somewhat forced holiday in Edinburgh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mamihlapinatapai

**Mamihlapinatapai** (Yagan): _wordless yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something but are both reluctant to start_

***

Another body had been found in Charlotte Square, by the statue Prince Albert. It was the third on a series of gruesome murders of young women, all dumped in public areas of Edinburgh. 

The first had been placed under the Tollcross clock, facing Lothian Road. The second, under Queen Victoria’s statue at the Foot of the Walk, in Leith. Other than a certain obsession with the monarchs, nothing else of the murders pointed at an obscure motive related to either Queen Victoria or Prince Albert. The women had had their throats slit, blood drained and fingers cut off — and probably stored as souvenirs. The last one — Megan Rhys — was a natural blonde, but had her hair dyed brown like the other two, which had the detectives even more confused. 

The Scotland Yard was out of their depth on this one, and they called out to the London office, reaching one DI Lestrade, who suggested they requested help from their consultant, Mr Sherlock Holmes. But it was also advised that they should try not to punch him, which made the whole crew a bit weary. But they needed help, desperately, before this guy attacked again. 

* 

So now, Sherlock and John were sitting on rather uncomfortable table seats on an East Coast train heading north. John brought an Edinburgh guide with him because for all the knowledge Sherlock had on London and London streets, it was almost certain that he knew nothing of Edinburgh. John himself had been to Edinburgh a handful of times, but he didn’t trust his own brain enough to guide him there, so it was best to keep it professional with the help of a map. 

Sherlock, sitting next to him, was responding to e-mails via mobile. He groaned loudly and cursed under his breath as they reached Doncaster. 

‘What’s the matter?’ asked John, looking across the table at Sherlock, whose legs took way too much room. 

‘There’s no signal here,’ Sherlock replied, frowning at his phone, then glaring out the window, as if it were Doncaster’s fault that his 3G provider was not trustworthy during travels. ‘I hate long train rides.’ 

‘Yes, I know. They’re dull,’ John repeated, just as he had heard Sherlock say again and again for the past two days, when they first got the case and made the travel arrangements. The train had been the cheaper — not _cheapest_ , as it was still quite expensive; the cheapest would have been the bus, but John refrained from even suggesting the option since he could just see the face Sherlock would pull at the slight mention of it — option, given that they would not have take a cab to Heathrow, then go through airport security, then take another cab from the Edinburgh Airport to the West End, where they had booked a hotel for three nights. 

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and sunk further into the chair, pressing his legs harder against John, making him all the more uncomfortable. ‘Is this really necessary? Can’t you sit upright like a proper upper class stiff?’ 

With a chuckle, Sherlock returned to his mobile, which had signal now that they were moving once more. He stayed in place, though. 

* 

As soon as they got out of Waverley Station, they took a cab to the police department. There, John and Sherlock were taken to DI McCallum, a tall, intimidating man with a head of red hair and a strong, square chin. His eyes were heavy and looked exhausted. 

‘I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner, Dr John Watson,’ Sherlock introduced them, shaking the DI’s hand. John followed him, doing the same and offering a small smile to the detective in charge. 

‘Detective Inspector Colin McCallum,’ he said, nodding at them. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson.’ 

Sherlock had to patience for pleasantries, so he gave the detective a curt nod. ‘I need to see your crime scene photographs and the bodies.’ 

And so the investigation began, and Sherlock went on making his deductions, seeming interested in this new serial killer. He almost danced at the balls of his feet as they waited for the bodies at the morgue. 

But things went downhill from that. Well, for Sherlock — and subsequently John. 

In the end, the case ended up being quite straightforward, as soon as Sherlock gathered enough evidence that proved the serial killer was in fact connected to all the victims and just killed them because they didn’t accept his romantic advances — he was a delivery boy for a Chinese restaurant, and the women worked/studied too much to either eat out or cook for themselves, so they usually ordered take away, and from the same place, which delivered in the areas of their flats, even though they lived far apart, in the areas where they were placed post mortem. It was easy to apprehend the culprit after that, which made for a happy police force, and a very grumpy, very annoyed Sherlock Holmes. 

They walked out of the serial killer’s — Duncan Kinnear, who had only dyed the hair of the last victim and cut off their fingers to trick the police into thinking there was a cleverer motive other than rejection — tiny flat in Granton, bidding their good-byes to DI McCallum and accepting his thanks. Well, John did that. Sherlock mainly frowned and looked annoyed at everything and everyone. He shot an intense glare at Kinnear, who was handcuffed to the police car. The young man squirmed under Sherlock’s stare, as well as he should, for being so utterly obvious. 

‘Lighten up, you caught a clever serial killer!’ said John, as they walked to the main road to catch a bus — because in that part of town it was impossible to get a cab. 

‘No, I caught a stupid man who couldn’t handle rejection and was just a clever enough to fool the police, which doesn’t take much in my experience. And to top it off, I wasted my precious time by spending four and a half hours on a train on the way here,’ Sherlock replied with a frown. He huffed and began to sulk. John decided they had to to something. 

‘Well, now that we are here, we might as well make the best of it,’ John suggested. The 19 bus arrived and they got in, John buying two single tickets from the driver. Sherlock led them upstairs where it was emptier, and they sat in silence for a few seconds. 

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Sherlock. John smiled. 

‘Well, Edinburgh is a beautiful city, and we booked the hotel for three nights. We are not getting the refund, so we might as well enjoy what Auld Reekie has to offer,’ John gave Sherlock a wink and turned his gaze to the front window of the bus. 

‘You want to tour, then? Is that it? Because you know how much I hate tourism.’ 

‘Oh, believe me, I know that. London knows that. I think most of Europe knows that, in fact. Don’t worry, no touristy stuff. But I thought we might check out Picardy Place.’ 

‘What is that?’ 

‘That’s where Conan Doyle used to live,’ John explained. Sherlock scoffed. 

‘You know I despise the drivel that man writes. Dinosaurs, frankly.’ Sherlock rolled his eyes as he remembered the story of the novel by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that John had told him. He had said it was gripping and fascinating, but how could it be when it talked about such nonsense?

‘Fine, but you have to admit he’s was a good doctor!’ John protested. They approached their stop on George Street, so John pressed the button. They went downstairs to wait. Sherlock agreed that, yes, that man was not a complete fool, but his imagination ran a bit too wild for Sherlock’s tastes. 

* 

It was early afternoon, so John suggested they walked for a bit, exploring the city on foot. Since Sherlock thought that could be useful in his hard drive — mostly because he hated using maps and asking for directions, and one never knows when they might end up somewhere like Edinburgh — so they grabbed two cups of tea at the Starbucks above Currys, then made their way to the Princes Street garden, going down the steep ramp — ‘now that is just dangerous!’ muttered John as he gripped the bannister and walked down slowly; Sherlock stood on the bottom chuckling at his friend — and walking towards the fountain that had a beautiful view of the Edinburgh Castle. 

‘Now _that_ is a nice castle. None of that Windsor nonsense,’ John commented, staring at the beautiful construction up the mountain. Sherlock looked down at him with a smirk. 

‘Well, you are biased by your Scottish heritage, John. I personally see nothing wrong with Windsor. Nothing like Versailles, though.’ It was John’s turn to scoff. 

‘And you are biased by your French heritage. Although I thought you hated the French.’ 

Sherlock shook his head. ‘I don’t hate them, I find them impractical.’ 

With a chuckle and a nod, John walked on, being followed by Sherlock. As it was a warm Spring day, the fountain was on and there were children all around, most of them running towards the playground near the old cemetery at St John’s Church. A particularly feisty brown-haired boy bumped into John, making him lose his balance for a second, almost falling onto Sherlock. 

‘Are you alright?’ asked Sherlock, raising an eyebrow at John’s wide eyes. Sherlock’s hand brushed John’s arm and their eyes met for a second, locking. But it was too quick to be noticed, as both looked away quickly, making their way to the Grassmarket. 

* 

There was nothing of Sherlock’s interest in the Grassmarket — although they did discuss the Edinburgh Castle again — so John took him to a place he knew well from all of his trips to Edinburgh. 

West Port had John’s all-time favourite book shop. Edinburgh Books. It was tiny and on the window there was a bust of Mozart John thought Sherlock would appreciate. And he did. 

‘This was one of my favourite places to come whenever I visited by Aunt,’ John commented as Sherlock inspected the books shown at the window. ‘The reason why I like 221b so much is that it reminds me of this place.’ 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John smirked. He pushed the door opened and was greeted by the smiling old man at the large mahogany desk that served as a till. It had a small 80s-looking till on top of it, a record book next to it and the rest of the desk and its surroundings were occupied with countless books. 

The shop itself was divided in four main rooms. The front room with the till and the one behind that, which had the books on Mythology and so on, and the two other rooms, which were devoted to fiction and poetry. The one adjacent to the main room had a bison head on the wall and Sherlock chuckled as he saw it. Now he realised why Baker Street reminded John of this place. This head, however, was lacking the headphones. The bison room had another large mahogany table in the middle of it, covered in new editions of new books, even though the shop mainly sold second-hand and vintage copies. Under the table there were a few LPs and a sign saying that “unfortunately” they weren’t for sale. Part of the decor, then. 

John was looking at Sherlock the whole time. He knew of Sherlock’s guilty pleasure for buying old, vintage and antique books. His friend’s mouth was twitching upwards in a tight smile as he read through the authors. Even though Sherlock abhorred popular literature, he had read — and enjoyed — the classics, and he quite liked poetry as well, but John thought he wasn’t supposed to know that (it was hard to miss Sherlock’s lingering gaze and quiet smile at the Tennyson memorial when they were doing research for a case at Westminster Abbey). 

Sherlock moved around the shop and into the part that interested him most — science and non-fiction. John stayed with fiction and picked up a few books for himself. After fifteen minutes, he went looking for Sherlock and found him standing by some books on Botanics that seemed interesting. To him, at least. 

‘Found anything?’ he asked, stepping closer to Sherlock, the smell of old books and expensive cologne trapping him in a daze of _Sherlock_. 

‘Fascinating Edwardian book on poisons and antidotes,’ Sherlock smiled, holding up a beautiful leather-bound copy of the book with the title written in gold on the thick spine. ‘And I’d been meaning to get another copy of _Psychopathia Sexualis_ since mine got lost when I moved from Montague Street,’ he showed John a thick black book that looked quite ominous. John grinned. 

‘Ready to go, then?’ Sherlock nodded, and John motioned for his books. ‘I’ll get these. It’s the least I can do for forcing you to stay here for two more days.’

John took the books from Sherlock, whose fingers brushed against his for a second longer than normal. Sherlock cleared his throat. ‘It’s not bad, actually,’ he admitted. ‘I’m enjoying the day off.’ John beamed at him and their eyes met once more. There was something there which John could not identify. He’d seen it before and it made him want to… Shaking theses thoughts away, John coughed and moved to the register. 

‘I should go, erm, pay for these,’ he said as he went, leaving Sherlock standing by True Crime. 

* 

They had dinner at a small pub/bistro in Morningside. The evening was warm enough and the sunset came late enough that they were able to walk comfortably there, enjoying the light breeze and companionable silence. 

*

John woke up the next morning with someone knocking on his door repeatedly. He groaned and got up to open it. There he found Sherlock dressed in dark jeans, a Thomas Pink linen shirt — John knew he wore them as “casual wear” because he always ended up having to iron them — and his usual suit jacket/Belstaff combo. John blinked twice and once more before letting his friend in with a grunt. ‘What do you want?’ 

‘Come on, John! It’s almost nine thirty, and the Royal Botanic Garden looks fascinating! We must go there at once!’ Sherlock said excitedly. John looked at him with a crooked eyebrow and raised a hand. 

‘Wait, I need to get my morning routine done before dealing with you.’ So he went to the small en suite bathroom and took care of brushing his teeth and shaving. He decided against taking a shower, since he’d taken one before bed the night before and one of the doctors at the surgery said that John might be “too clean”, which wasn’t actually that good. He combed his hair and walked out, still in his boxers-and-t-shirt pyjamas. But at least he was awake now. 

‘Ready to go?’ 

‘I need to get dressed first, why don’t you wait for me in the lobby and we’ll go out for breakfast and the Botanics afterwards?’ Sherlock nodded at that — surprisingly pliant — and left. John put on grey chinos, a checkered maroon shirt and a moss green jumper, then threw his coat on after putting on his shoes. 

Sherlock was waiting as expected, bouncing at the balls of his feet and smiling as John made his way towards him. God, a happy Sherlock was a sight to behold. Well, if John were to be honest, any Sherlock was a sight to behold, but when he was happy it was like everything around him grew brighter. It was like Sherlock was made of magic. 

‘I feel like a proper Scottish breakfast this morning,’ John commented as they exited the hotel. Sherlock looked at him strangely. 

‘Is that the one with the black pudding, grilled tomatoes, tattie scones and haggis?’ asked Sherlock with a twist of the nose. John chuckled. 

‘Hey, don’t diss it before you try it, Mr Thumbs-In-The-Fridge.’ 

‘I don’t _eat_ the thumbs, John,’ retorted Sherlock, making a face. ‘And I dispose of them after the experiment is done.’ 

‘Or you have me dispose of them, right?’ John asked with a wink. ‘But I dispose of the breakfast once I’m done as well. Not as neatly as you, though.’ Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, then burst out laughing. John joined in and they ended up leaning against each other, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of their eyes. 

‘That is so juvenile, John,’ said Sherlock amidst giggles. John poked him. Their eyes met again. And there it was. That feeling. John sobered up. He had not idea what to do about that strange, new feeling he had for Sherlock. It was nameless and faceless, and it was like a tingling in the back of his throat and the tips of his fingers, and a heavy weight at the pit of his stomach all at once, but it felt good and he—

‘We must hurry,’ Sherlock straightened himself up and walked in front of John. ‘You may have your breakfast, but then we must head straight to the gardens.’ 

* 

John and Sherlock strolled in companionable silence down the streets. They (John) ate at a small Scottish cafe near Queensferry Road and from there they made their way to the Royal Botanic Garden. Sherlock started observing the people that went by, and he and John turned it into an amusing game to pass the time as they walked. It was interesting for Sherlock to apply his observational skills to people from a place so different from London. Compared to London, Edinburgh was like a small village, undisturbed and tranquil — filled with just as many tourists, sadly. Although at least they were much more seasonable than in London. August and December were the busiest months in Edinburgh due to the International, Fringe and Book Festivals, and Hogmanay. 

When they got to the Botanic Garden, Sherlock lit up. He was very much interested in Botanics, so the opportunity to study as many plants and trees as possible around him was rather exciting. John smiled as his friend sped up to reach the entrance. 

‘All of the trees here have a small plaque with their Latin name,’ explained Sherlock, who observed his surroundings with the wide-eyed glee of a child in a sweetshop. ‘They also have twenty-five glasshouses for display and research, quarantine, and propagation, due to the fact that 80% of the flora occurs in warm temperatures.’ His speech was quick as he walked towards a large tree that John couldn’t identify — unlike Sherlock, he didn’t know trees by their Latin names. John himself decided to simply enjoy the free time. He walked in a slow pace a few metres behind his friend, arms behind his back, eyes covered by the sunglasses he was glad he remembered to bring — Sherlock himself had forgot, and now was squinting against the bright sunlight that was not as uncommon in Edinburgh as it was in London — letting the gentle, cold breeze brush against his hair and soothe his spirits. 

They walked around for about an hour and a half, going around the Garden, towards Queen Mother’s Memorial Garden, which looked absolutely beautiful, with a small gazebo-like house at the very end, neat tall walls of leaves. Sherlock walked right past that, rolling his eyes at royal celebrations. They turned a corner and met a beautiful Victorian-looking structure. 

‘The Victorian Palm Houses,’ Sherlock said, smiling at John’s amazement. ‘That’s the entrance to the glasshouses, built in 1834.’ 

‘How do you know all that, and still manage to delete the solar system?’ asked John, turning to face Sherlock with a smirk. Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. 

‘You are never going to let this go, are you?’ 

John chuckled. ‘Lighten up, I’m just messing with you,’ he said, patting Sherlock’s arm. If his hand lingered for a second more than usual, none of them seemed to want to point out. 

In front of the Victorian Palm Houses, there was a small structure of small glasshouses that contained different types of grass and leaves. This seemed to fascinate Sherlock enough that he decided to snap a few pictures with his phone. John, on the other hand, was growing a bit tired, his leg hurting from the long walk, so he sat down at a bench in a far corner which was being provided shade by a nice bushy tree. He sat there and sighed as his muscles relaxed, then proceeded to watch Sherlock with joy. John was glad he managed to convince Sherlock to take this break — he had really needed one. Sherlock seemed to think that the Work alone would keep him going, but sometimes the man needed to kick back, relax and enjoy life, and John felt blessed that he was able to provide his friend with not only relaxation but enjoyment. 

Sherlock looked beautiful under the sunlight, his dark curls shining under the white beams of light, eyes sparkling with joy as he leaned over to observe the plants as closely as he could. John smiled at the sight of the most important person in his life being completely and utterly happy in his turf. Sherlock enjoyed a few more minutes of observation, then he turned to where John was sitting and shrugged. John shrugged back and motioned with his head for Sherlock to join him at the seat. 

John scooted over to the right to allow Sherlock to seat next to him, which he did a few seconds later. Moments passed with both just looking at the beautiful view in front of them, at the people, couples, families that passed by. There was no need to speak at the moment, the silence felt right. John looked at Sherlock’s profile, at those shapely lips and sharp cheekbones, he admired the fair skin against the sunbeams. Sherlock felt the gaze and turned to face John, and their eyes met not for the first time in this trip. There was electricity this time, and John recognised the feeling that had been nagging him since the first time. He felt _everything_. He felt the unbearable urge to lean in and take Sherlock’s lips in his, to hold his hands and run his fingers through those curls. He felt the need to be closer, _closer_ , like the distance was killing him. 

But he couldn’t, couldn’t…

Sherlock himself felt much the same way. His fingers were tingling with their want for John’s golden skin, John’s fine blonde hair that looked so much blonder and more beautiful in this sunlight, John’s hand in his, lips in his, skin in his skins. He wanted to bathe in John and drown in John. He needed to bury himself in John’s skin, to be inside him forever and never let go or leave. John’s blue eyes met his and blue was instantly all Sherlock saw, the world was blue like those large pools that showed so much caring and fondness for Sherlock like no-one had ever done before. Sherlock imagined those eyes fluttering closed as he kissed John’s neck, nipping at his collarbone, licking the supernova-shaped scar on his left shoulder. Sherlock imagined being touched by those firm yet gentle fingers, somehow soft even though calloused by the war. 

But John would never… could never feel like that about Sherlock. It just didn’t happen, Sherlock was very well aware. He wasn’t good for romance. As much as he fantasised about touching John’s skin, he knew that it would probably be repulsive for anyone to be touched by him. He who did experiments with corpses and internal organs and roadkill. He who was a self-diagnosed, high-functioning sociopath. No, it was best to keep things the way they were.

So, Sherlock looked away and cleared his throat. John seemed to wake from his own reverie and snapped his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose. John sighed, and was the first to break the silence. 

‘How about we head down to Stockbridge? There used to be a great Italian place there, brilliant risotto,’ John said. ‘And you’re having lunch, don’t even try to convince me you’re not hungry.’ 

Sherlock gave him a small smile and nodded. ‘Fine, let’s go, then.’ 

* 

Their train back to London left at sixteen past ten, so when they arrived late at the train station, John and Sherlock had to make a run for it, just catching the train before the doors closed. Panting, they made their way to their table seat and got comfortable for the four-and-a-half hour journey back home. 

Sherlock buried his nose in one of his new books, and John busied himself with the crossword puzzle from the newspaper. Both actively ignoring their feelings from the day before. 

It was a peaceful journey back, and, when they got home, it all went back to its original place. Feelings stayed locked up tightly, and life at 221B Baker Street was just like it had always been. 

For now, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> To begin with, the clock at Tollcross has nothing to do with the royal family, just the other statues I mentioned. 
> 
> Anyway, I live in Edinburgh, so I wanted to show a few of my favourite places in the city. Here's some info you might find useful:
> 
> Edinburgh Books is a real place, and it's in West Port. They sell amazing books, and there's always some wonderful music playing. (http://www.edinburghbooks.net/)  
> Hogmanay is the New Year celebration in Scotland, and the party in Edinburgh is incredible. They close down Princes Street and there are fireworks everywhere. Last year (2012/2013 - the Be Lucky! party) I went to the Concert in the Gardens, which featured Simple Minds and The View. 
> 
> The International Festival, the Fringe Festival and the International Book Festival are very well-known around the world. There's art, music, drama, literature. It's great fun, and it lasts for almost two months. The Book Festival always welcomes writers from around the globe, but also loads of local authors, like Ian Rankin and Irvine Welsh - whom I met last year - as well as Neil Gaiman. 
> 
> The Royal Botanic Garden is beautiful, and if you're ever in Edinburgh, it's worth checking it out. Especially the glasshouses. 
> 
> Lastly, I mentioned Arthur Conan Doyle as if he had never written Sherlock Holmes, and was simply known as a doctor and the author of the other novels he wrote. The one I'm referring to in this story is The Lost World, which has indeed dinosaurs in it. (fun fact: I purchased my copy of that book at Edinburgh Books!) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
